


What's Good and Golden Never Lasts

by RisingShadows



Series: Gifts of the Wastes [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Blood and Violence, How Do I Tag, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-24 19:02:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20019475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RisingShadows/pseuds/RisingShadows
Summary: Gifts are a known aspect of life. rare and sought after the militaries covet them.  And then the bombs fall, and the world dies and 1 in every 4 people has a gift. Now the only struggle is surviving long enough to find out you have one.





	What's Good and Golden Never Lasts

Preston was fifteen when he first met the Minutemen. Standing in the small field of razorgrain his family had fought so hard to cultivate as the small contingent had drawn closer. Praying they would keep walking, that he wouldn’t have to bury another family member. Or that his family wouldn’t have to bury him. His older sister two months before, his younger brother a year ago. 

His heart had stopped when they had, his head slowly coming up to meet the eyes of who he thought was their leader. Two feet from him and watching him with the shrewd look Preston always associated with raiders, or slavers. Or caravan guards, trailing dutifully behind their employers and watching every little movement for a reason to put a bullet through you. 

“You live here kid?” The gruff question took him by surprise. Raiders didn’t ask questions; they waved their guns around and gave orders. Questions? Those required a bit too much thought process. And they didn’t invoke the fear and terror raiders were so fond of. Only question they’d ever ask was if a dog could learn to shoot a gun. 

Actually, they may have tried that. Half of them were always so high on chems that the thought of a dog shooting a rifle probably wasn’t that far-fetched for them. 

When he’d finally forced himself to answer the question, the man had nodded once and asked if they could stay the night. Preston’s mama had wanted to say no. But they all knew that it was better to let them than turn them away. 

Sometimes, sometimes they let you live if you let them stay. And neither of his parents were about to take the risk, everyone had heard the stories, farms burnt in the middle of the night. Families still inside them. 

The next morning, they left. And his parents could breathe again, his family was safe as you ever were trying to make a living in the wastes. Holed up in the old farmhouse they’d been in since his grandfather had found it, farm still growing out back. 

It wasn’t until two weeks later that another group passed, armed and armored the same as the first, but this one gave a name. The Minutemen, ready to help anyone out there who may need it. Whether it was raiders or gunners or mirelurks. Hell, even said they’d help out with feral’s if they ever needed it. Of course, neither of his parents had believed them. At least not at first, then they started talking. 

They’d helped the Atlas’s down the road, put down some feral ghouls that had been swarming, killed a mirelurk nest for the settlement that was just past it. The settlers had named it Morgan, had only been there less than a year and had already fallen on hard times. Preston’s dad had been certain they were done for. 

Preston only needed a few stories, tales of people they’d saved, before he was clamoring to head out with them. And as the head of the small band, Colonel Hollis, said, they always had room for more hands. Especially if those hands were even a halfway decent shot. Preston had always been one of the better shots on the farm, nothing like his sister. Laura could take a feral’s head off from across the farm. 

He’d left the morning after with the small band of Minutemen nearly empty handed. No one out in the wastes had much to carry with them, that never changed. Even once you settled down, even when you grew up in a place with enough space to accumulate items, you were always ready to leave it all behind. 

He was with them for nearly a year and a half before anyone took note of him. Even then, he had spent all of that time under Colonel Hollis. And well, that didn’t change. He remained at Colonel Hollis side as he led them from settlement to settlement. Mirelurk terrorizing one, raiders another. It seemed it never stopped, there was always someone out there crying for help, and Hollis was always urging them to be the first to answer. 

He was nearly 17 when the small band of Minutemen he was with realized he had a gift. 

He was nearly 17 when a raider put a gun to the side of his head and pulled the trigger. He’d closed his eyes, said his goodbyes in his head and wondered if his family would ever get word of what happened to him. 

He never questioned whether he had done what was right. Never questioned if he should’ve just stayed home, worked the farm. Kept taking pot shots at ferals, and mutts with his sister. 

The bullet never left the gun. 

Nor did the bullet leave the second or third guns the man tried to use. Cursing and growling about jammed guns, one of the raiders had lit up. Fire across one forearm as she stepped forward, cackling. “A gift against a gift huh brat?” 

The one with her had come at him with a knife. 

17 and the youngest of the band he’d been the perfect example for what would happen if you fought back. 17 and he was the only reason the lot of them survived, a small gash on his right bicep, and scorched clothes, the only sign the fight had ever taken place. Well, a small gash and a pile dead raiders. Flames flickering in the rubble around him as he stumbled over to free the others. 

It didn’t take long for word to spread through the Minutemen, one of their own was slippery. It was a gift you heard of occasionally. Someone that just wouldn’t die, like a radroach. Preston just wondered what his parents would say. Wondered if they’d blame it on his sister's death, his brothers. He’d been with them both times, both times he hadn’t even had a scratch. 

It was long after that Preston caught onto the changes. Subtle as they were. Hollis never seemed to let him out of his sight. He didn't help out other teams, wasn’t sent out for anything simpler than a fight. He stayed with the Colonel’s unit even as everyone else moved on. Settling down or moving up in the ranks while he trailed behind the Colonel. 

In the end? It didn’t matter. So long as he was doing good, so long as he was helping people, Preston couldn’t bring himself to care.

And the Minutemen were doing good, they were saving lives and helping settlements and for a time it almost seemed like the Commonwealth would reach some form of peace. Some chance for something more than just the constant fight for survival. And then it all fell apart.

He’s been with the Minutemen for 9 years when they lose the Castle. And with the Castle, the general. He isn’t as surprised as he wants to be when the Minutemen seem to forget what they were fighting for. Isn’t as surprised as he would like to be when they slowly began falling apart. When teams stop showing up to help. Colonel Hollis tries, he follows the calls asking for aid from Quincy and Preston follows. The Colonel's men trailing behind him as expected. And everyone else turning their backs. 

The Minutemen buckle and crumble until there isn’t anything left but one small band under a Colonel’s guidance. Only two of them gifted trying oh so desperately to save the lives of a group of people they had never even met. 

Preston almost wants to tell his mama she was right. 

What’s good and golden never lasts. 


End file.
